With These Hands
by hbananad
Summary: "Papa?" "Yes, Matthieu?" "Why're there lines on your hands?" A short, sweet oneshot between France and Canada, both little and grown. Can be seen as France/Canada, or simply parental affection, depending on what you'd like to see.


France/Canada or no pairings, depending on the quality of your shipper goggles.

This was inspired by 'The Hand Song' by Nickel Creek, and you should totally go listen to it. I did, on repeat, while writing this, so it might help to set the mood.

Translations and notes can be found at the bottom, as always.

DISCLAIMER: Only the plot and the writing itself are mine. Everything else... Not so much.

***#With These Hands#***

"Matthieu, would you like a story tonight"

_"Oui, Papa! S'il tu plaît?"_

"Of course, _Cher."_

Strong hands lifted the tiny blond child - already clad in pajamas - onto the bed, before a much taller man sat on the edge and swung gently into a position where he could cuddle his 'son,' but still easily slip away once the little one was asleep.

Canada smiled happily as the same hands tucked the blankets carefully around him, holding a stuffed white bear close to his chest. He loved it when his Papa was home - it was warm and safe. Papa would never let anything bad happen to him. Papa would always be there to protect him.

"What story would you like tonight, _Cher?"_

There was a pause as the child thought it over. "Papa can pick!" he eventually declared with a grin.

"Alright." Another comfortable silence enveloped the room as the bookshelf was looked over, before the much older blond was once again seated, with the smaller leaning against him contentedly.

France's voice flowed over the room, and the softly turning pages only added to the sense of total calm. Canada was drifting off as the story came to an end, and managed in a very small, sleepy voice, "Papa?"

"Yes, Matthieu?"

"Why're there lines on your hands?"

Confused for a moment, France looked down at his hands for a moment, before he smiled softly in understanding.

Scar tissue made patterns across the backs of his hands, forming lacy crosses over his fingers. His left palm held the remains of what was once a painful gash from the base of his ring finger to just out over his wrist. France's hands were a testimony of centuries of work - farming and fighting - and no matter what pains he took to keep them elegant, there was simply no way as a nation to remain unscarred.

"Because long ago, Papa got a little hurt, _Cher."_

Concern filled the little one's violet eyes. "Papa was hurt?"

"Long ago, Matthieu, long ago. I am fine now."

"Promise?"

A smile lit over graceful features. France was simply overjoyed that his 'son' cared so much. _"Oui, Cher,_ I promise. They don't hurt anymore. I like them, a little." he presented his hands to the tiny colony, allowing him to trace over the lattice work of scars.

The concern faded a little, but was quickly replaced with confusion. "Why?"

"Because they remind me that I have succeeded in protecting you, Cher. Is that okay?"

Brow still wrinkled a little, Canada nodded and reluctantly snuggled back down beneath the covers. _"Bon nuit, Papa. J't'aime."_

France bent slightly and gave him a gentle kiss goodnight on the forehead, smoothing fingers over blond hair as he straightened.

_"Bon nuit, Cher. Je t'aime aussi."_

The candle was blown out, and the door shut.

***#Centuries Later#***

It was finally over.

That was the only thing he could think about, at the moment. It was over, and there was some time for him to rest before he started to rebuild.

With a heavy sigh, France pulled away from the window where he'd been watching his people celebrating all morning, making his slow, painful trip across the room to the very comfortable-looking couch. Collapsing into it, the nation let out a sigh. It was nice to not have to constantly worry about when the next tragedy would occur. He could simply sit, close his eyes, and breathe.

He must have fallen asleep, because he opened blue eyes to the sound of someone knocking.

Lacking the energy to stand, he simply yelled at whoever it was that the door was open and he was in the parlor.

After listening to quiet footsteps that gradually got nearer, France broke into a grin as Canada was the one to open the door.

Canada, who had been taken away by England. Canada, who had fought in this war _for_ England. Canada was here to see him. Him, not England.

"Matthieu!"

_"A-ah, bonjour Francis..."_ the North American stuttered out as he made his was over to the European who was currently draped rather ungracefully over the couch.

He was so much taller, now that France had a chance to properly look at him (Being at about waist level because of the couch probably affected this, though), and his accent had certainly gotten worse over the years. But this was still his precious Matthieu, here to see him.

"I brought you these..."/a haphazard bouquet of roses was presented to him, held in a fist without adornment, so much like how a child presents a handful of wildflowers to a beaming parent. "T-they were always your favorite..."

By now, France was positively beaming, and starting to receive a tiny smile in return. _"Merci beaucoup, Cher._ They are my favorite,"

As Canada arranged the flowers slightly haphazardly in a glass mason jar France had sitting around for who-knows-why, the older nation inexplicably found his gaze drawn to the younger's hands.

At France's gasp, Canada whirled around, already opening his mouth to ask what was wrong when he was interrupted. _"Cher,_ your hands-!"

The northern nation's hands, once small and free of blemishes, were a network of scars and scabbed-over cuts that hadn't had time to heal. One exceedingly new scrape on his thumb welled with red, and France immediately linked it with the roses.

"Come here."

A little nervously (which was understandable, as France HAD just freaked out over his hands) Canada made his way over to the couch, sitting cautiously on the edge as France pulled himself up to a position that at least vaguely implied sitting and held out a hand demandingly.

He then watched, bemused, as France proceeded to pull a first aid kit from seemingly no where, disinfect and bandage every gash, and then press kisses to each bandage.

"Do they hurt?"

Finally seeing the point the other was making, the former colony smiled. "No, they don't hurt anymore. I like them, a little."

The answering smile was almost worth the war.

_"J't'aime, Cher."_

_"Je t'aime aussi, Papa."_

_***##***_

_"Oui, Papa! S'il tu plaît?" - _Yes, Papa! Please?

_Cher - _Dear/Darling (general term of affection)

_Bon nuit - _Good night

_J't'aime / Je t'aime - _I love you

_Aussi - A_lso

_Bonjour - _Good day / hello


End file.
